«Manuel Cararra.»
«Cararra?…»
«Yes. It’s why those two young people used it. They knew I’d see the political connection. Cararra was a leader in the Chamber of Deputies, one of the most powerful men in the country. But his allegiance was not to Brazil; it was to Graff. To the ODESSA. I killed him seven years ago, and I’d kill him tomorrow.»
Noel studied Tennyson’s face. «Who knew?»
«A few old men. Only one’s still alive. I’ll give you his name, if you like. He’d never say anything about the killing.»
«Why not?»
«The shoe, as they say, was on the other foot. Before I left Rio de Janeiro, I met with them. My threat was clear. If ever they pursued me, I would make public what I knew about Cararra. The long-revered image of a conservative martyr would be shattered. The conservative cause in Brazil can’t tolerate that.»
«I want the name.»
«I’ll write it out for you.» Tennyson did. «I’m sure you can reach him by transatlantic telephone. It won’t take much; my name coupled with Cararra’s should be enough.»
«I may do that.»
«By all means,» said Tennyson. «He’ll confirm what I’ve told you.»
The two men faced each other, only feet apart. «There was a subway accident in London,» Noel went on. «A number of people were killed, including a man who worked for the Guardian. He was the man whose signature was on your employment records. The man who interviewed you, the only one who could shed any light on how or why you were hired.»
Tennyson’s eyes were suddenly cold again. «It was a shock. I’ll never get over it. What is your question?»
«There was another accident. In New York. Only days ago. A number of innocent people were killed then, too, but one of them was the target. Someone I loved very much.»
«I repeat! What’s your point, Holcroft?»
«There’s a certain similarity, wouldn’t you say? MI Five doesn’t know anything about the accident in New York, but it has very specific ideas about the one in London. I’ve put them together and come up with a disturbing connection. What do you know about that accident five years ago in London?»
Tennyson’s body was rigid. «Watch out,» he said. «The British go too far. What do you want of me? How far will you go to discredit me?»
«Cut the bullshit!» said Noel. «What happened in that subway?»
«I was there!» The blond man thrust his hand up to his collar beneath the pinstriped suit. He yanked furiously, ripping his shirt half off his chest, exposing a scar that extended from the base of his throat to his breast. «I don’t know anything about New York, but the experience in Charing Cross five years ago is one I’ll live with for the rest of my life! Here it is; there’s not a day when I’m not reminded of it. Forty-seven stitches, neck to thorax. I thought for a few moments—five years ago in London— that my head had been half cut off from the rest of me. And that man you speak of so enigmatically was my dearest friend in England! He helped get us out of Brazil. If someone killed him, they tried to kill me, too! I was with him.»
«I didn’t know… The British didn’t say anything. They didn’t know you were there.»
«Then I suggest someone look. There’s a hospital record around somewhere. It shouldn’t be hard to find.» Tennyson shook his head in disgust. «I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be angry at you. It’s the British; they’ll use anything.»
«It’s possible they really didn’t know.»
«I suppose so. Hundreds of people were taken off that train. A dozen clinics in London were filled that night; no one paid much attention to names. But you’d think they would have found mine. I was in the hospital for several days.» Tennyson stopped abruptly. «You said someone you loved was killed in New York only a few days ago? What happened?»
Noel told him how Richard Holcroft had been run down in the streets, and of the theory conceived by David Miles. It was pointless to withhold anything from this man he had come close to misjudging so completely.
In the telling was the conclusion both men had arrived at.
In my judgment, our checkmated pig was reached by a third party.
Who?
I wish to heaven I knew… Someone else.
A man in a black leather jacket. Defiant in a dark alley in Berlin. Willing to die … asking to be shot. Refusing to say who he was or where he came from. Someone or something more powerful, more knowledgeable, than the Rache or the ODESSA. Someone else.
Noel told Tennyson everything, relieved that he could say it all. The relief was heightened by the way the blond man listened. His speckled gray eyes never wavered from Holcroft’s face; they were riveted, totally absorbed. When he had finished, Noel felt exhausted. «That’s all I know.»
Tennyson nodded. «We’ve finally met, haven’t we? We both had to say what was on our minds. We both thought the other was the enemy, and we were both wrong. Now, we have work to do.»
«How long have you known about Geneva?» asked Holcroft. «Gretchen told me that you said a man would come one day and speak of a strange arrangement.»
«Since I was a child. My mother told me there was an extraordinary sum of money that was to be used for great works, to make amends for the terrible things done in Germany’s name, but not by true Germans. But only that fact, no specifics.»
«You don’t know Erich Kessler, then.»
«I remember the name, but only vaguely. I was very young.»
«You’ll like him.»
«As you describe him, I’m sure I will. You say he’s bringing his brother to Geneva? Is that allowed?»
«Yes. I said I’d telephone him in Berlin and give him dates.»
«Why not wait until tomorrow or the day after? Call him from Saint-Tropez?»
«Beaumont?»
«Beaumont,» said Tennyson, his mouth set. «I think we should meet with our checkmated pig. He has something to tell us. Specifically, who was his latest employer? Who sent him to that train station in Geneva? Who paid him for—or blackmailed him into—following you to New York and then to Rio de Janeiro? When we find this out, we’ll know where your man in the black leather jacket came from.»
Someone else.
Noel looked at his watch. It was nearly six o’clock; he and Tennyson had talked for more than two hours, yet there was still a great deal more to say. «Do you want to have dinner with your sister and me?» he asked.
Tennyson smiled. «No, my friend. We’ll talk on our way south. I’ve calls to make and copy to file. I mustn’t forget I’m a newspaperman. Where are you staying?»
«At the George Cinq. Under the name of Fresca.»
«I’ll phone you later this evening.» Tennyson extended his hand. «Until tomorrow.»
«Tomorrow.»
«Incidentally, if my fraternal blessings mean anything, you have them.»
Johann von Tiebolt stood at the railing of the terrace in the cold air of the early evening. Below, on the street, he could see Holcroft emerge from the building and walk east on the sidewalk.
It had all been so easy. The orchestration of lies had been studiously thought out and arranged, the rendering underpinned with outraged conviction and sudden revelation that led to acceptance. An old man would be alerted in Rio; he knew what to say. A medical record would be placed in a London hospital, the dates and information corresponding to a tragic accident on the Charing Cross underground five years ago. And if all went according to schedule, a news item would be carried in the evening papers reporting another tragedy. A naval officer and his wife had disappeared in a small pleasure boat off the Mediterranean coast.
Von Tiebolt smiled. Everything was going as it had been projected thirty years ago. Even the Nachrichtendienst could not stop them now. In a matter of days the Nachrichtendienst would be castrated.